And it wasn't what he said, so much as the way he said it.

I knew then why he had such, a record for getting his own way.
King swallowed hard and glared from dad to me, and then at Beryl, who had come up and laid my arm over her shoulder--where it was perfectly satisfied to stay.

There was a half-minute when I didn't know whether King would shoot somebody, or have apoplexy.
"You're late, father," said Beryl sweetly, displaying that blessed certificate rather conspicuously.

"If you had only hurried a little, you might have been in time for the we-wedding." I squeezed my arm tight in approval, and came near choking her.

King gasped as if somebody had an arm around his neck, too, and was squeezing.
"Oh, well, you're here now, and it's all right," put in dad easily, as though everything was quite commonplace and had happened dozens of times to us.